Chan emerged from the ruins of his coffin like a beast unchained, centuries of slumber peeling off his alabaster skin. Blood had become his symphony, and his body thrummed to its haunting melody, each pulse an unholy hymn and blood bags weren't sustenance enough. You were a shadow among the forgotten souls, wandering the abandoned dungeon until his voice, deep and silken, coiled around you like smoke.

“You,” he murmured, stepping into the fractured glow of a flickering lamppost, his smirk a crooked dagger and white eye prominently displayed, “You’ll do nicely.”

Panic prickled your skin, but the air held you, thick with iron. He moved faster than you could register as he dragged you to his lair by your wrist, his grip like a brand in the prison of dim torches and chained souls. The others cowered, meagre vessels for his insatiable hunger. But when his gaze fell on you, it softened; unsettling to his ruthlessness.